Nothing But Ourselves
by repmetsyrrah
Summary: S/T AU. Sybil says yes to Tom's proposal in York and the pair embark on a secretive courtship at Downton. But the threat of discovery, and the consequences it brings with it, are closer than they think.
1. Chapter 1

This is a birthday fic written for my lovely beta, babageneush. It's going to be reasonably short and, like some others, explores what might have happened if Sybil had said yes to Tom's proposal in York. I haven't seen any other fics go where I plan to take this one though. So I hope you enjoy it.

More details will be filled in as we go on but there was no waiting at all here, (imagine if, instead of saying 'flattered' she just kissed him). The story picks a few months later, with the couple still at Downton but **very** much together.

And a **huge** thanks to cassiemortmain for stepping in a betaing this first chapter for me so I could make it a surprise :P

**Chapter One**

* * *

"Sybil?"

The small packets fell from Sybil Crawley's fingers as she jumped, startled by the voice that came unexpectedly behind her. She turned to face her cousin, trying to keep her face blank as her mind raced for an explanation.

"The officers at the house get visited by their beaus sometimes..." she said after a moment, trailing off significantly as she gathered the packets and slipped them into her apron pocket.

She hated how easily deceit came now.

Even more when Isobel smiled with amusement and understanding. She tried to tell herself it wasn't entirely a lie. The soldiers did have visits from sweethearts and they certainly did sneak off to private places. That was the truth. And she hadn't told Isobel the preventatives were for them, had she?

Not that it made her feel any better.

Isobel might be more accepting than most, but Sybil knew even she might disapprove if she had been aware her young, unmarried cousin intended to use them herself.

With the help of her father's chauffeur.

They had argued at first about whether or not to give in to their desires, whether they should allow themselves to keep going instead of pulling apart when their kisses began to progress.

Tom had insisted he did want her, very much, but it was a too big a risk for her to take when they weren't yet married. Sybil had been so offended he would make that choice for her that it had led to their first true argument, the shouting ringing off the walls of the garage and only luck keeping them from being heard and found out.

The fight had driven her from him for a while. Knowing full well their time together was entirely hers to control, she had abused that power as she denied him even the opportunity to set things right.

But she had been hurting too and eventually she had been unable to put them through any more pain.

She had never been in love before so she hadn't known quite what to expect when they spoke again after the argument, but being wordlessly handed a packet of french letters hadn't been something she'd considered.

"I went all the way to York on my half-day to get those," Tom had told her as she'd turned the box over and over in her hands. "I didn't want to run the risk of getting recognised."

"This means…"

"No risk of preganancy, or… reduced risk." He had stood in front of her, looking almost as nervous as that day in York, when he'd finally confessed his feelings to her, saying things she had wanted to hear for so long without even knowing.

She realised he had misunderstood her. She knew what the box contained, what they were used for. No, this meant he was willing, that he would let_ her_ decide if she wanted to take the risk, if she wanted to be with him.

And she very much did.

"Oh, Tom."

She hadn't been able to resist kissing him then but Tom had had to stop them. He was willing yes, but the middle of the day just before luncheon was not the right time.

"Love, we can't- not _now_-"

"Tonight."

He nodded. "Tonight, then."

Dinner had been excruciating.

"Sybil, you'll play bridge later won't you?"

"Of course."

"_Except I won't, I'll be losing my virginity to one of the servants."_

Once she had caught Thomas looking oddly at her and had the absurd thought he could read her mind and knew absolutely all of her secrets.

She still wasn't sure how she had managed to survive it. She had almost had to excuse herself when she'd imagined standing up after dinner and casually making the announcement.

"_Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to fuck the chauffeur."_

Of course what she had really told them was that she was feeling unwell, offering her apologies before slipping outside and to the garage where he was waiting.

They had gone quietly into his cottage and there, unmarried and yet unashamed, he had laid her down and they had finally, _finally_ come together as they had wanted to do for so long.

And it had been more wonderful that she could have ever imagined.

It had not hurt as she had expected.

Not a single moment of it.

She had been under the impression the act itself was the main event but Tom had proved her wrong. There had been more to it than she knew from medical books. Far more.

It had almost been a contradiction, how incredibly gentle and loving he had been, yet how strong and powerful at the same time.

She had felt almost new again, her body changing as she let herself give in to her desires. She hadn't realised how sensitive certain places could be under the right conditions. And how incredibly skilled Tom was at finding them.

Then after, she had gotten up, dressed herself and snuck back into her big, lonely bed to pretend as if nothing had happened at all.

She had to hold on to hope though. She had to have faith that any day now Tom would get the letter they were waiting for. That he would be able to resign and walk into the house and stand beside her, in front of her whole family, and declare their love.

Yet war made everything harder and this was no exception.

With every rejection letter she had to bear the pain of watching his spirit break just a little more. She had to be strong for him in those moments, when he fought to keep his belief that a man could rise about the station of his birth, that if he worked hard enough he would achieve his goal.

It was hard on both of them.

They had discussed the possibility of not waiting, of sneaking away to marry, but so far had been unable to find the time they wanted to devote to the event. Tom had blushed when she'd pushed but finally admitted the reason he wouldn't be content with rushing off to have an afternoon ceremony in a cramped office before sneaking back to the Abbey was that he wanted to give her a proper wedding night.

The admission made even funnier by the fact she was lying naked in his arms at the time, having just finished a round of extremely sinful love-making, this time made possible by Sybil's first act of thievery from the hospital.

"A wedding night is supposed to be special," Tom had insisted. "Not just for… well, you know?"

"I _do_ know," she had giggled, slipping her hand between them to show him exactly how much she knew.

Needless to say the conversation hadn't gone any further at that point in time.

But whether in secret or not it _would_ happen, of that she was certain. One day she would become Mrs. Sybil Branson and he would be a journalist and she would get a job as a nurse and they'd live in the open, married and proud.

They would have children when they chose and they'd work and come home to their own house, where they could make love without fear and lie together afterwards, falling asleep and knowing they could stay there, in each other's arms, for as long as they wanted.

She just had to have faith.

* * *

Tom Branson had worked since he was ten years old. He was used to hard labour, physical or mental.

But today had been particularly draining.

With more and more male servants being called to war every week the extra work they left was being spread between less and less people.

Some days Tom would work from dawn till dusk without even touching the motors. Today he had been called upon to ferry the Dowager Countess to and from luncheon but other than that he had been an honorary gardener, helping with the removal of an old tree that had come down the week before after being damaged in a storm.

It was heavy work and he was ready to collapse into bed as soon as he went through the door.

But he couldn't help the smile that formed on his face when he entered. For all his fatigue, finding his fiancée waiting for him with open arms was enough to make even the harshest day seem better.

He stepped happily into her embrace, almost collapsing into her as he let the stress of the day fall off his shoulders as she held him.

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment until Sybil spoke, stepping back just far enough that she could see him properly.

"You look _exhausted_."

"I am," he sighed, "It's been a long day."

"Well," she said with a smile. "Luckily for you, I am not."

It was normal, Tom knew, for it to be seen as a woman's job to greet her husband and have the house ready for his return. But Sybil took care of him now, not from duty, they weren't even married, but purely out of love. There was truly nothing subservient in her actions as she helped him shed his outer layer of clothes before pushing him down into the chair by the fire and kneeling to take off his boots.

She was rather skilled at the task, deftly undoing the buckles at the top, pulling the straps free before her hands slid down the leather, removing the upper half of the boot. and playing it to one side. She turned back and tugged at the laces on his foot until they came untied and she could pull the bottom part of the shoe off.

"They won't miss you, will they?"

He watched her remove the second, wondering what Lord Grantham might say if he knew how practiced his daughter was at removing even the most complicated pieces of his chauffeur's uniform.

"Not for an hour or two," Sybil assured him.

She stood and placed his boots by the door in an action so domestic Tom could pretend, just for a moment, that they were in their own little home, far from Downton and anyone who would judge them.

But, of course, they weren't.

It wouldn't be much longer, he promised himself, but it rang hollow. Neither of them knew how long the war would last. How long it would take to find work away from Downton.

How long they would have to continue hiding.

Looking to take his mind off thoughts that would only frustrate him, he found his eyes falling on a bag she had brought with her.

"What's that?"

"Nothing important right now. I'll tell you tomorrow," Sybil promised, leaning down to kiss him. "_Tonight_, I am going to make my very tired fiancé some tea and he can tell me all about his day."

"Only if you tell me about yours." His demand was rewarded with a grateful smile and a nod.

He knew he was the only one she could truly tell about the hospital. He remembered the conversation with Lady Grantham one trip to Ripon, where Sybil had let slip some of her more demanding tasks and had to spend the rest of the trip insisting she could in fact handle such work and that she did not need to speak to Dr. Clarkson about leaving her position at the hospital.

He thought sometimes he should feel happy he was the only one who could give her that. Who could listen and not make her feel judged or as if she had to censor herself. That it should make him feel special. Except he loved her too much to find pleasure in the knowledge that no one in the house would let her be herself. That she felt so out-of-place in her own family.

He watched her move around the tiny kitchen in his cottage, letting himself pretend for a moment that she was always there. That she wouldn't be leaving soon to return to the cold, stiff luxury she had been born to.

He hated that they had to hide, to live their courtship in minutes and hours, stolen glances and continual lies. Under the constant fear of discovery, the threat of being cast out from Downton with nothing to their names but the scandal of a love no one would understand.

But he supposed that they still continued said more than anything about their determination to be together.

They had each other. They had their love and they would have their whole lives to shout it from the rooftops if they could just be a _little_ more patient.

For now, they had to be content with that.


	2. Chapter 2

Rating goes up with this chapter.

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Sybil was disappointed, but unsurprised, to find Tom's cottage empty.

It was easier and safer to meet in his cottage. It gave them their own space, even allowing them to find time to eat together, forgetting for a few hours the distance that separated them.

She always wanted to see him but that hadn't been why she had come. This morning, the main purpose of her visit was to retrieve the bag she had left at his cottage the night before but as she reached for it her eyes fell on his small desk and the pen and blank paper that lay waiting upon it and a much better idea sprung to mind.

She smiled.

* * *

Unfortunately her good mood did not continue, with the news not only Granny but Lady Delson, who had come out with Sybil, had decided to visit for luncheon, meaning Sybil had been expected to change out of her uniform and into a proper dress. Though she had fought her mother on taking the whole afternoon off.

At least she wasn't seated next to her grandmother. She wasn't sure how many more times she could stand to hear: _"We really must think of the girls' futures once the war is done."_

She knew nothing of the future she wanted would match at all with the Dowager's ideas of how her life should be.

After luncheon Sybil avoided her mother in favour of her old friend, sitting in a corner of the drawing room together. She hadn't seen her since her wedding, almost a year and a half ago and knew that she had recently had a son, which was a good topic to start with.

"He's gorgeous, Sybil, you must see him when you're in London next," Fiona told her. "But it was such a relief."

"To finally have an heir?" Sybil asked with a smile, knowing all too well the pressures placed on women who married first born sons of titled families.

"To get back into my own bed again," Fiona laughed, before looking rather surprised at her own words. "Oh, do forgive me, Sybil, dear. I didn't mean to be so vulgar." She gave another laugh and sipped her tea.

It took Sybil a moment to understand the statement. But when she did, she spoke without thinking.

"Well, there are more reasons to share a bed than children I thi-"

"Sybil, dear," Violet interrupted, loudly and pointedly, surprising the pair as she appeared behind Sybil. "Perhaps you ought to tell Lady Delson about your nursing. She's helping out here, we all must do our part in the war effort."

Fiona smiled and asked a few polite questions about Sybil's work before guiding the conversation to how the war was affecting the social season and Sybil fought to keep her smile in place until she felt it wasn't rude to excuse herself and get back to work.

That would be what was expected of her when the war was over. Find a nice titled man, charm him with her looks and show him how delightfully she could attend to his every wish. Smile vacantly on his arm at parties, leaving the real conversation to the men.

Settle, bear his children.

Do her duty.

A sudden ripple of sadness for her old friend washed over her.

Because it could be so much more.

She had known before she had been with him, form hushed conversation that would make her grandmother faint, how wonderful being with a man could feel. Not to believe common opinion because women could find the act just as pleasurable as men.

Something Tom had shown her time and time again.

What none of them had mentioned and what Sybil herself had found rather surprising, was how much joy she gained from bringing pleasure to him. It made her feel powerful, to watch him come apart so completely in front of her, knowing she could bring him to that.

Everything was different with Tom.

Nothing with him had ever felt like a duty. He expected nothing from her other than for her to be herself. Even in his bed she had never felt freer.

Being with him wasn't a duty. It was liberating. It was freedom.

As luck would have it, she saw him not half an hour later, though unfortunately not in a situation where they were free to be themselves.

It wasn't uncommon to see him in the house now. Not when there was often heavy lifting required and a lack of able-bodied men to do it.

She watched him for a while, hidden in a small alcove underneath the stairs. His jacket had been removed, leaving him in a shirt and waistcoat, still entirely appropriate but looking very good as he helped move several beds around.

She fidgeted as her mind started wandering further down that path until it was taking all her control not to run out and drag him away then and there.

She couldn't imagine a world where she would want to sleep separate from him. Where loving him would be a chore. Where he would ask nothing more of her than to stay at home a bear his children.

She needed to remind herself what life with him would be like, the opposite of duty, of submission.

She needed _him_.

* * *

Now.

"Sybil, I - _oh_."

Tom's eyes rolled back as his head thumped on the wall behind him.

"_Sybil-"_

He gasped, his fingers tangling in her hair as he fought to keep quiet.

It hadn't been too surprising when he had been grabbed from behind and pulled into a supply closet. With so many of the male servants signing up or being called up, he was often called into the house to help with physical tasks. And it was rather unusually common to coincidently find himself alone with her outside an empty store room or cupboard.

She was clever, his Sybil.

It _had_ been a surprise when she had undone his trousers and, without a word, dropped to her knees and taken him in her mouth.

Not that he was complaining.

At all.

"_Jesus."_

Dear god she was good at this.

Very good.

"Sybil," he choked out, only a few minutes later. "Sybil, love-" he pushed at her gently and she stood, her lips finding his, one hand tangling in his hair as the other found its way between them, finishing in a few strokes what her mouth started.

"_Jesus."_

"You said that," she reminded him, breathless and laughing.

Tom joined her, kissing her again and again.

As much as he would have loved to stay with her forever, reality eventually worked its way into their secret world.

Tom pulled away first, sighing as he looked down. "I made a mess of your dress."

Sybil just grinned. "Why do you think we're in here?"

She reached around, tugging the strings of the apron and slipping it off before balling it up and tossing it in the laundry bag beside her.

"What if they see it?"

"With all the strange and nasty bodily fluids nurses get on their uniforms I doubt the laundry staff look too closely at any of it," she assured him. "Besides, these aren't named and there's at least ten there already."

"You thought this through." He couldn't help the note of admiration in his voice but his words had an unintentionally sobering effect as they both remembered why they were forced to take such precautions.

They had discussed it at length on several occasions, what would happen if they were discovered. Tom would lose his job of course. He would be thrown out of Downton without a reference, lucky if the police weren't called.

Sybil's situation was slightly less certain. They had never discussed it out loud but Tom knew if anything was discovered he would deny any act that wasn't outright confirmed. Sybil could even avoid scandal completely if all that was suspected were stolen kisses in the garage. Many young girls found small favours with servants.

However, he suspected Sybil wouldn't stand by and let him do that. She was more than likely to stand proudly beside him and claim every detail. He doubted he'd have fallen so hard for a woman who wouldn't.

Though in that case, they could both be turned out with nothing but the clothes on their backs- if Lord Grantham was feeling generous.

It wasn't a risk to be taken lightly.

Tom pulled her into his arms, kissing her head as she sank into his embrace.

"It won't be this way forever," he promised her.

"I know."

They stayed there for as long as they dared before Sybil heaved a resigned sigh and pulled back.

"I should go."

"What about you? Or am I to have all the fun today?"

She laughed. "Did you get my note?"

Tom didn't need to ask what she meant. He had been to his cottage for a quick bite between driving Lady Grantham to Ripon and coming up to the house to rearrange the beds. He had noticed that her bag was still there from the night before but he wouldn't have thought anything of it if not for the note on top.

Perched on top, in the unmistakable, aristocratic script of the Earl's youngest daughter it had read:

_Next time I visit I hope you aren't too tired._

_I want this box empty._

Inside he had found a box of French letters.

He had left the note exactly where he'd found it, something to look forward to.

The look on his face must have given him away because she laughed again. "There'll be plenty of time for you to make it up, Mr. Branson."

They kissed again, with none of the urgency they had begun with, hoping, but not knowing for sure how soon it would be until the next one.

* * *

"You _what_?"

Daisy jumped at the shout and cowered under Mrs. Patmore's furious glare.

"I didn't think it would matter, we've got two more."

"What is going on?" Mr. Carson's voice heralded his arrival in the kitchen, followed by a concerned Mrs Hughes.

"The pan I need for tonight's third course has broken and Daisy's only gone and given the spare away!"

Carson turned to the tiny maid and gave her a questioning look.

"Mr. Branson asked if I had one to spare and I didn't think there was any harm-" she stammered.

"Except I'm using one for the soup and the handle just fell off the other," Mrs Patmore cut over her.

"I'll go and get it," Daisy offered hurriedly.

"No, no, certainly not," Carson huffed, looking horrified by the prospect of the scullery maid in a man's cottage.

"Well, send a hallboy then," Mrs Hughes sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

"There's no one to spare, not this time of day."

"Oh, so I'm to serve only half a course tonight?" Mrs Patmore yelled, brandishing her wooden spoon at the butler.

"Calm down, Mrs Patmore," Carson ordered her with an exasperated sigh. "I will go down to Mr. Branson's cottage and retrieve the pan, _personally_."

Mrs Patmore looked slightly mollified but as soon as the housekeeper and butler disappeared into the hall her voice rose again, assuring Daisy if dinner was ruined she'd make sure the family knew exactly who was to blame.

"If only to spare the poor girl's life," he muttered to Mrs Hughes as he passed.


End file.
